My so-called phone calls

The really cool thing about the call from Skipperella a month ago (which I nattered on about here) was that it came on the first night of my new crappy relationship with my answering machine. You see, that week He of the Red Hair proposed that we move our conversation (on-going since May, after a brief interruption of 11 years) from email to the telephone. It was a sweet thing to ask for, and I said yes, please, cool.

What I didn't realize, what is still dawning on me, is how frustrating it is to have good lovin coming in by telephone, or not, according to someone else's whim/mood/plan/boy angst/schedule. Oh boy. I had no idea what I was getting into. I have consistently wonderful conversations with HOTRH when he calls me, but when I call him we talk flatly for two minutes and get off the phone. What's up with that? It makes me ever so grumpy that I have to admit that the pop psychology folks are right, that the girl really does have to let the guy make the call.

So, back to the call from Skipperella. There I was, trying really hard not to let my life turn into a phone vigil, when I came home from an errand to a message from Skipperella. Skipperella who makes me laugh and fall down. Skipperella who knows my stories and sniggers through my latest updates. Skipperella my friend. It was great timing because I needed a chance to laugh and relax and know what to expect, more or less. It got me all loosened up to be myself when he did call and we did talk.


ps I'm liking this HOTRH acronym. He of the Red Hair. HOT RedHead. Hot boy he is, too. He of the Red Hair--which, he says, comes with a genetic predisposition to burn down London. Sweet and funny too. I think the phone bullsh*t is worth it.

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